Years ago, after an unexpected surgery, I became manic. At the peak of mania I experienced life like a child living it for the first time. Back then, I frequently felt goosebumps, chills and wonder despite the fact that I was confined in a high-security psych ward.

Eventually, court-ordered medication “cured” me by thrusting me into an emotionally flat state I referred to as “the verge of tears.” Under the drug’s influence, my world lost its former vibrancy. Adrift and dispirited, I longed to feel goosebumps, chills and wonder once more.

Desperate to escape my passionless prison, I sought passage back to those manic pleasures. I read books, watched videos and browsed the internet to find a pathway. Was it the touch of God? A spiritual awakening? What contemplative sages had sought for millennia? Months passed without an answer and I eventually accepted my numb life—until my heart began to fail.

Without warning, I found myself in an ambulance with sirens wailing and lights flashing rushing toward an emergency room. Upon arrival, the medical staff whisked me away as if I were at death’s door. Tests revealed that my heart rate was a mere thirty beats per minute—when it beat at all. In no time, a doctor delivered the diagnosis: the atrium of my heart had ceased functioning.

With defibrillator pads affixed to my chest and side and a plethora of electrodes tethered to the lifesaving equipment surrounding me, I gravely awaited the root cause. When the answer came, I was not surprised: the medication I had grown to hate was killing me. A cardiologist abruptly discontinued it and admitted me to a telemetry ward where nurses monitored me for three days while my body detoxified.

Once freed of the medication, my mind soared once more and I relived the feelings I had so obsessively sought. I told no one for fear of being committed again or forced to endure yet another poison. When I finally stabilized, I described my temporary ecstasy to my wife as “a state of grace.”

No longer numbed by drugs, I subsequently felt the feelings regularly. As I basked in their glory, I wondered: could meditation take me increasingly heavenward?Or would I, like countless addicts, wind up chasing an unsustainable high? Reluctantly, I eschewed temptation.

Over time, I noticed what triggered them: seeing a beautiful photograph; reading a moving story; watching an inspiring movie; riding a motorcycle through snow-capped mountains; standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon; witnessing the splendor of the Taj Mahal.

Recently, I read an article in which people described similar feelings: being unaware of day-to-day worries; a deepening of the senses; a feeling of oneness with life; goosebumps; chills; tears of joy… The word that they universally used to describe their experiences jumped from the page and I knew that my search was over. I could not believe that three simple letters could embody what I felt: awe.

My Dad died on January 11, 2015, but this is not a lamenting of his death, it is a celebration of his life: a life well lived.

“What is a life well lived?” You may ask.

It is serving your country. Dad received full military honors at his funeral including a 21-gun salute in respect for his military sacrifice.

It is recovering from failures and turning them into successes. Dad flunked out of college, then went back years later to that same college, Johns Hopkins, and received a BSEE, an MSEE, and a PhD.

It is taking what life throws at you in stride and running with it. Dad raised four boys, only one of whom he planned. Each of us presented our own unique challenges but he accepted all of us with love.

It is creating a bucket list and checking off every box. Dad petted whales in the Sea of Cortez, photographed unusual wildlife in the Galápagos Islands, explored China, and Europe, swam with fish in the Caribbean, and watched glaciers calve in Alaska.

It is throwing caution to the wind and starting something new. Dad moved several times during his career, living in the East, Midwest, West, and a few places in between. In his fifties, he left a secure job with IBM and consumed all of his retirement nest egg to found one company, and then another. By doing so, he enjoyed success beyond his wildest dreams.

It is sharing your good fortune. Dad donated religiously. He adopted a platoon. He created a scholarship fund for young people struggling, as he did, to go to college. He purchased school computers and equipment. He donated to the medical facility that restored his hearing with a cochlear implant. He put several children and grandchildren through college and helped a son and a daughter-in-law run for public office. He shored up fledgling family businesses and helped to buy first homes. He took many family members on trips to locations that they would never be able to afford themselves.

It is using your mind to its fullest. Dad held 88 patents. His ideas changed the world in the form of super market and industrial bar code scanners. The largest observatories in the world use his inventions to analyze the light from stars. Dad read voraciously and contracted as an engineer almost until he died, not because he needed to, but because he loved it.

It is having passion. Dad produced countless photographs of impeccable quality using the best photographic equipment available and his own darkroom. He possessed infinite patience when it came to capturing the “perfect shot,” whether it be at the top of a mountain or at the bottom of the ocean. He could hold his breath for four minutes thirty feet underwater while tracking a Queen Triggerfish or a Barracuda with his underwater camera.

It is taking care of your machine. Dad lifted weights, swam, ran, hiked, and walked his entire life. He ate healthily, maintained a good weight and never drank, smoked or used drugs. He was the picture of health and vitality and had better endurance than almost any other family member had.

It is always being optimistic, having a sense of humor, and looking at the bright side of life. In Dad’s last days of life, he could no longer fend for himself. My brother Dana helped him stand and get around. He was impressed at how solid Dad’s body was, even in its failing state and knew that came from years of exercise. He mentioned that to Dad. He grinned and flexed his muscles one last time, mocking death. My brother did not know whether to laugh or cry at his indomitable spirit.

It is about family. Our family gets along better than most, but it has its share of drama. Despite this, Dad insisted that we get together every year—nearly thirty of us. I cannot remember when that started, but it continued for many years through the last year of his life. Knowing that his time was short, we honored him and my mother last summer at the family reunion. Every evening, we held a question and answer session and listened to my parents tell stories about all of our lives. It was the last reunion he would lead.

It is saying goodbye. Whenever I visited Dad, he always stood outside and waved as we left. And he did not just wave, he continued to wave until he could no longer see us. Although my Dad’s health failed quickly at the end, and he could barely see or talk, instead of complaining or feeling sorry for himself, he used that time to make audio recordings for his sons, wife and extended family to let us all know how much we meant to him. It took every ounce of willpower he had left to do that, but he made sure the job was finished.

I will miss you, Dad, but I am more inspired by how you lived your life than I am sad about your death. You showed me what a life well lived is. Now, it is up to me to follow your example.

LFISGR8. That is what the license plate says on my father’s gold Lexus. I used to think it was vain and egotistical, but I think differently now.

I visited my father a short time ago. Days earlier, his doctor informed him that he was in the “end-game” of his life. There were no more treatments for his cancer and his condition was terminal.

Now eighty, my father took exceptional care of himself his entire life. He did not drink, smoke, or do drugs, and he exercised religiously every day: weight lifting, swimming, running, hiking—he always did something. He maintained a healthy weight, ate the right foods, and loved my mother, his wife of over 60 years, dearly.

During his battle with cancer, he maintained an upbeat attitude despite the heavy odds against him. Cancer medications kept the cancer in check, but took a toll on his weight: it plummeted from 155 to 110 pounds over a few months. Ultimately, he would die by starvation, so the doctor stopped his treatment.

That would have been fine by me, but the doctor did a disservice to my father. I can’t be upset with him—someone had to break the news, but I wish my Dad hadn’t heard the words he spoke because he accepted the doctor’s prognosis and gave up: and that’s not who my father is.

Those of us who do not die by accident, while unconscious, or in our sleep will all be faced with this choice, but I wish there was a way to choose to live every day to its fullest, no matter how many days we have left to live. I wish there was a purpose to every day and a joy associated with each breath, each spoonful of food, each ray of sunshine, and each kiss goodnight. I cannot imagine resigning myself to death because I love this life so much, but my father is the strongest man I have ever known and I have seen him make that choice.

More than anything, I wish his doctor had told him to live every day he has left to the fullest, share love with everyone special to him, and go to bed exhausted because he filled it with so much. That is the kind of medicine I want for this world, that is the kind of doctor I hope to have when I am in my last days. We all will die, but we do not need reminding of that, we need reminding to live.

LFISGR8 means something different to me now because of how my father lived his life: it means never giving up on your dreams and following your passions. It means taking care of the vessel you live your life in so that you can better appreciate every day. It means being kind and generous to others so that they may see life as you do. Even though you see things differently because of a doctor’s words, Dad, life is still great. I wish you the best for the rest of your life, whether it be measured in hours, days, or weeks. Thank you for being a shining example. I love you.